


Unexpected Company

by Petalpistols



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Closure, Comfort, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petalpistols/pseuds/Petalpistols
Summary: She had changed and she had survived- and now she can find comfort in his presence as she was not able to all those years prior.  “The best of them”, she said to him.  And that alone made him frown.





	Unexpected Company

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed the progression of their relationship on-screen. It was a slow burn that got better every time they spoke of another. This is the dialogue that I would’ve loved to see them share. 
> 
> Not entirely sure if I will continue, so please comment below if you’re interested in seeing more of these two :)

          Tyrion welcomed the stillness of night like an old friend. It was lonely, but it was better than sharing his chambers with a stranger- no matter how tempting the thought was. It was not that he had moved past his days where he enjoyed a good natured cock-sucking, it was just that he could not seem to entertain the thought presently. Try as he may, even the sting of wine could not offer him a few moments of reprieve. If anything, the red color of his drink unintentionally acted as a pre-cursor for spilled blood, whilst his foggy head swirled with the notion of what-ifs. Anxiety seeped into the room like a heavy fog, level with the tip of his nose. He’d probably die, or at the very least, be one of the first to be taken out. He had hoped the alcohol would numb the fear, but instead it merely made his thoughts non-linear. Would he be maimed first? Or would they lob off an arm and an ear before cutting him down? It was hard to tell.

   
          Another drink. Tyrion is quick, though clumsy in pouring himself yet another full glass of wine until a knock at his door interrupts him. Perhaps if this had been any other night he would be bit more annoyed, but the daze of liquor kept him feeling feather-light.

 

          His head turned slowly to the noise as if sudden movements would take him off-balance, his blonde eyebrows raising. He however, did fill the remainder of his drink just before taking long, slow strides towards his chambers door. Upon opening it, the sharp blue eyes before him began to take an immediate effect in sobering him up.  
         

          “…Lady Sansa.” His mouth felt very dry as he looked up at his ex-wife, her gaze turning his body to stone. The seconds felt slow as they passed before turning to minutes, and it was only when she slowly moved her attention to the goblet in his hand, droplets of liquor streaming from the nearly over-filled cup and tickling the tips of his fingers did Tyrion speak. “I was feeling parched.” He quickly swallowed the lump in his throat.

  
          “So it appears.”

   
          Silence. It filled the space between the two like the sea parting bodies of land. Of all the nightly visitors he thought to receive- and Tyrion assumed he’d receive none, she was the least likely in his eyes to be knocking at his door. He wasn’t sure what to make of her unwarranted appearance. And as if she had caught onto his confusion, tracing his features with eyes that have seen far too much, she is the first to speak again. “May I come in?”

  
          Tyrion opened his mouth, then shut it tight, pressing his lips into a very thin line as he breathed out through his nose and stepped aside, allowing room for her to enter. As he did so, he trained his eyes on the floor and began counting back from ten. It was an old trick he had learned from another sad, inebriated man he had encountered in his travels. If he counted back from ten, sounding out the numbers in his head, then he would wake up from his drunken stupor. Or at the very least, his mind would no longer play hazy tricks on him and the Stark girl would dissipate right before him into nothingness, proving to no one but himself that he was truly alone. However, by the time he was at number seven Sansa had not only passed before him, but she was already at his table near the hearth. The fireside glow creating dancing shadows over her cloak as her skin seemed to glow like the moon centered in the blanket a starless sky.

  
          “Is it wise to drink now, My Lord?”

    
          That alone nearly took him back to eve of their wedding, how his father demanded him to consummate the marriage, and how Tyrion couldn’t. Or rather, how he wouldn’t.

  
          _“I won’t share your bed.” He shook his head, gaze dipping down, and then back up at her. “Not until you want me to.”_

_  
“And what if I never want you to?”_

  
          A breathless laugh escaped his lips at the memory before he looked to Sansa, one of her auburn brows quirked questionably. In response, Tyrion simply raised his goblet to her, wine sloshing in the cup. “Probably not.” He noted, taking a drink.

  
          She smiled, something akin to the blade of a dagger before it quickly faded away, her stare now occupied by the dancing flames that sat nearby. She remained like that for a few moments, quiet, as if she were waiting for the fire to capture her and turn turn her to ash. Tyrion, whom at first seemed complacent in watching her for a bit, eventually gave in to his brimming curiosity.

  
          “Why is it that you’ve come to visit me at this hour?” He found himself careful with his words, almost as though he were balancing a sword atop his fingers, the steel threatening to cut him at any moment. He knew better than to play a game that was not completely his. Easy questions for now would do, at least until he found her motive. Accompanied by his inquiry was the quiet clink of his goblet settling atop the varnished wooden table- the only thing that parted the two of them.

  
          And it seemed as though his question was worth asking, for that gave him a reaction he could work at picking apart. He had seen it a hundred times on a hundred different faces, hesitation, the way her nerves twisted her hands into little white-knuckled knots, the way it forced her fingers to thread into the hem of her cloak, her grip appearing so tight that if it had not been made of leather, it would tear. Even more than that, her posture grew stiff, shoulders squaring. It almost appeared as if she were readying herself for a fight. But Tyrion wouldn’t hurt her- not without reason, and Sansa knew that. Or at the very least, he _hoped_ she knew.

  
          “My lady-“

   
          “I didn’t want to be alone.”

  
          His lips hung open with unspoken words, Tyrion merely breathing out in response. He was absolutely flummoxed, blinking up at her. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he attempted in scraping together something to say back. Though the best he could muster was “…Come again?”

  
          Not only was he drunk, but apparently he had also gone _mad_. The Stark girl had no reason to want to find comfort in his bed tonight, and her proposition had taken him so off-kilter he found need in blanching himself by the table to his side, steadying his hand overtop. He licked his upper lip, searching for the right words. Tyrion’s first thought was that it would be rude to reject such a pretty lady, but he quickly shot himself down, mentally scolding himself at the thought of bedding her. It was not that he had never not been interested, she was after all now no longer a child. She could make her own decisions, have her own escapades if she so desired- he just didn’t feel as if he would be the right fit to her…. Anything. And as if she had picked up on his line of thinking, Sansa spoke up again, turning to face him.

  
          “I didn’t come here for sex.”

   
          At that he cocked his head to the side, looking to her with a furrowed brow and parted lips. He pulled away from the table so that he could scrape together a bit more composure. The drink in his system keeping him warm, yet delayed. “Oh.” He nodded his head almost to himself. He made a good attempt in not sounding disappointed before a brow of his own quirked, his gaze questioning. “Then why are you here?”

  
          She looked away- eyes flicking towards the hearth once again, like a moth to a flame. Her hands found themselves centered before her belly, thumbs pressed together. “I wanted company.” Sansa met Tyrion’s stare with her own. Her bright blue eyes cutting into his skull, as if she were dissecting him.

  
          “Well.” He spoke breathlessly. “I imagine there are plenty of others in Winterfell that would better suit your tastes-“

  
          “I believe I know what best suits my tastes.” Tyrion breathed out at her words, reaching for his goblet. She paused, watching him momentarily. “…I do not know the other women here well enough to speak privately with them at such an hour.” She then drew her attention to a decoration on the wall, voice growing quieter- an edge to her words that had not been there prior. “And any man other the hound and my brothers will expect something of me.”

  
          “And you think my expectations are any different?” He took a sip, the liquor making him a bit bolder, and a bit stupider. He had spent so much time before trying not to behave like a bumbling idiot, that it was starting to seep out of him now. Sansa however, seemed to not mind his words, responding without hesitation.

  
          “Yes.”

  
          He stared up at her from the rim of his goblet before letting out a sigh, setting it back down in its spot and sitting at the chair pushed forward. “You have too much faith in me.”

  
          “I have just enough.”

  
          “I’m a man-“

  
          “A _good_ man.”

  
          He let out a laugh, imagining all the faces he’s seen throughout the years growing sour at her words. “Then I don’t think you know me that well.”

  
          “Maybe not.” She found herself settling down on a chair that was placed across from him, hands folding over her lap as she sat straight. She now reminded him of her mother, the way her chin was raised proudly, head tilted up. There was a silent strength to her that she did not have last they’d seen each other. And this strength had kept her, and what was left of her family alive and resilient. “But I do know what you did for me- and what you didn’t do.”

  
          He raised his brows. She continued. “You protected me as best you could.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms overtop the table, hands joined together. “And you never touched me.” His head lowered. Though his mouth felt quite dry, he swallowed still.

  
          “You were a child.”

  
          “That wouldn’t have stopped many men.” Tyrion looked back to her. “But it stopped you.”

  
          “That doesn’t make me a good man.”

  
          “It makes you better than most.” She pursed her lips, sitting upright again. “The _best_ of them.”

  
          He frowned at the implications of her words, and the weight they carried. Though he knew there were many things she had faced in his absence, could see it in her eyes as soon as the two had first reunited at Winterfell, he could only imagine the challenges that she had suffered returning home. The men who had no doubt grabbed at her, used and abused her. He silently thanked the wine in his body for keeping him from further pondering on what had made her what she was now. In his experience, time, pain, and anger made one strong, it became ones armor, and a ones sword and shield. It made one search for something to fight for. Whether it was through the persistence of vengeance or survival, it had given her the strength of a war-torn warrior. Her eyes- once so docile and full of fear, now carried a complicated confidence that would never fade. And although there was a bit of sadness to her stare, there was also _hope_.

  
          “And you survived.” 

  
          She smiled- small and proud. However, once again it faded just as quickly as it had came, becoming curious. Her head cocked a bit to the side. “Why is it that you’re trying to sway me into thinking poorly of you, Tyrion?”

  
          _Tyrion_ , his name on her lips akin the the chime of a bell, it forced his head to tilt upright to get a better look at her. He waited one beat to answer. “I’m not…”. He started, sighing. He stood from his chair only to stride slowly towards his bed, one hand reaching out to smooth over it’s wooden frame. “That’s not my intention, Sansa.” He looked back. She waited for him to speak further- so he carried on. “I simply believe you give me too much credit.”

  
          Pursing his lips Tyrion breathes out through his nose. “I believe…. You have been in short supply of good men as of late.” He could hear her inhale sharply, see the way she sucked in her lower lip. Her gaze now colder than the chill of a Northern night. “And I do not want you to waste time thinking decently of me when all I did was meet a bar that should be raised much higher.”

  
          “And I am sick of men telling me how I should think.” She stood with such power that her chair thunked against the floor as it was pushed back, Sansa walking towards him with long, heavy steps. Her stare was hard, and her lips had been pulled into a thin, callous line. “And how I should feel.” She looked down at him. Though her arms had now been discarded to her side, he took notice of her hands, how her fingers had curled into tangled roots like that of the great oaks of the North.

  
          “I have seen great men _die_.” She began slowly, punctuating her words carefully. “And I have seen evil reign victoriously. I know a man from a monster. I know that now better than most, and I will not have you telling me how I should feel on anything.”

  
          He remained silent, staring up to her just as she stared down to him. There was a tightness to his chest, and as he found his words, Tyrion tapped his palm against the bed-frame it had been resting on. “You’re right.” He breathed out a somber sigh, nodding to himself. “I spoke out of turn. Forgive me.”

  
          That alone seemed to begin to quell the anger he had unintentionally coaxed out of her. It brought him some comfort, but not much.

  
          “I am not telling you to believe my words.” When she spoke again, there was a calmness to her tone, like an ocean settling after a storm. “I am simply telling you how I feel.”

  
          She then, to his surprise, takes his hand in hers just as he had done for her all those years prior whilst she remained captive in Kingslanding. It felt like a century ago now, yet her hands still felt the same. Small and warm. It was comforting, how she cradled his fingers in her own, the way there was no hesitation. She would never have done this to him back when they were first wed. He could still remember the way the Stark girl had stared at him with distaste- and now here they were, speaking as equals, rather than reluctant newlyweds.

  
          He felt honored to be privy to a side he thought she had abandoned long ago. Her tenderness still remained. Like a weak flame, it had somehow survived through the torture the years had put her through. In a way, it had made him happy that something of that little girl had remained.

  
          “And I thank you for that.”

  
          He placed his other hand now firmly overtop hers, looking to her once again- her cold glare gone. Instead, it had been replaced with something much more collected than before. It made him smile, warm and subtle.

  
          “Though I do think it’s about time for you to return to your quarters.” Drawing his hands back, he allowed his gaze to remain fixated up at her. “For I have drank too much- and I cannot promise I will not be emptying my gut within the next hour.”

 

          She chuckled quietly, rolling her eyes.

   
          “And you need your rest.” He finished, her stare moving back towards him.

  
          Silence filled the space between the two- but this time it felt much more comfortable, like the sea-breeze off a shore. And after a moment she relented, nodding. “Very well.”

  
          She however did not stop there, surprising him further as she leaned down before him, placing a delicate kiss atop the high point of his cheek. She lingered a bit at the spot before standing tall yet again, looking down to him with a lopsided smile, pleased to see that she had taken him by surprise, his expression that of muted shock.

  
          “Goodnight, Tyrion.”

   
          And with that she left, closing the door behind her and leaving him alone with his thoughts. He found his fingers running over the spot where her touch had been.

  
          It still felt warm.


End file.
